HAI HELLO WAVES CAN I REQUEST SOMETHING WHERE THE READERS ABADDON’S IMMORTAL MOTHER FIGURE PLEZ🥹🥹🥹 IT CAN BE LITERALLY ANYTHING HEADCANOMS ONESHOT A LITTLE BLURB IT DOESNT MATTER IM DESPRATE AS SHIT🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹
𐕣 Abbadon x the vessel's mother reader 𐕣
You are a mother without her child.
This is a fact that has been drilled into you for nearly 300 years.
Three hundred years of wandering, of dying and not staying dead, of lifting frail, sick boys into your arms and holding strangers as they slipped away to a peace you do not deserve.
Three hundred years of trying to keep other people alive because you failed the one that mattered.
Three hundred years of the colonies growing into something new and observant, changing without you barely noticing until it begun to tie trouble to your identity.
So you take up the first job that doesn't ask you too many questions. A cleaner at a strange hotel with stranger rules. The pay is shit, even by your standards, but it's fine, you don't need the money anyway. You need somewhere quiet to practice hiding the fact that you do not breathe unless you remember to.
The Undervale Hotel smells like old varnish and older mold.
You do not mind this.
After three centuries, you have cleaned up far worse, blood in church basements during the war, soot in burned-out homes, children’s beds where fever clung to the air. Dust and mildew hold no power over you anymore, not when you'd realized you could simply stop breathing to avoid the smell. Your heart refused to stop beating.
You sweep along the edge of the foyer, the bristles whispering across the carpet.
It is peaceful. Quiet.
Almost enough to make you forget how the world keeps pulling forward without you, while you remain strangely, stubbornly alive.
You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and think about the children you’d loved to death, some literally. You reminisce about how you always had to vanish before a village grew suspicious of why the strange hospice woman never changed, never sickened, never aged.
You think, as you often do, of your son.
Your little boy with soft, wheezing breaths and warm, feverish hands.
Your little boy who disappeared the same night your heart broke and refused to stop beating.
You searched for his and your husband's bodies for days, weeks, months, until you finally gave up hope of ever finding them.
You believed, because you had to, that they’d been buried, burned, or carried away by waters kinder than your god had been.
A thud breaks you out of your thoughts. A clatter followed by a hissed curse, not possible for mortal throats.
You snap your head up.
A boy stands precariously on a lobby chair, arms stretched high, as he tries to grab hold of a “STOP TOUCHING THE FIREPLACE” sign on a hook just out of his reach.
He mutters to himself about mortals with greedy little hands and taping limbs together.
Your hands go slack on the broom handle.
He turns.
And you freeze.
Because this face is your son’s, the face you wiped fevers from, the face you kissed goodnight every dusk despite the risk of catching ill yourself, but the eyes are wrong. Ancient. A predator’s hunger curled inside a child’s skull.
When he sees you, he stops moving.
He fully ceases every muscle, mid-blink, mid-breath, mid-whatever he was doing (which seems to be stealing from the front desk).
The world stops.
It really is your son’s face. Your boy’s cheeks, your boy’s nose, your boy’s hair just as unruly as when fever plastered it to his forehead. But the eyes, those eyes are older than your own.
They take you in all at once, bottom to top, like a predator assessing a new creature.
You call out, without meaning to.
The boy no, the thing inside him goes truly still.
Still like death.
Slowly, the chair creaks beneath his feet.
He climbs down, never breaking eye contact.
He approaches with a gait too controlled for a nine-year-old.
Then he stops, an arm’s length away, and looks up at you.
“Mother?”
Your knees nearly give out.
It is not your boy’s voice, it echoes, dripping with centuries. But you know the words are his.
Suddenly he is in front of you, launching? Pouncing? Flinging himself through the room without regard for gravity. His small hands clutch your clothes, nails dimpling your skin, as if testing whether you will vanish.
“You,” he rasps, furious and terrified all at once, “you are dead.”
It is a question. A plea. A wound.
Your breath stutters, a habit more than a need, and your fingers tremble as you reach out, hovering. Afraid to touch.
His face crumples at your hesitance, snot mixing with tears.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of centuries. “You should have died.”
“I did,” you whisper.
You cup his cheeks, because despite the memory of too-warm skin, he is cold, and your boy is shaking.
“I’m here,” you whisper.
Abaddon trembles. Then he snarls because how dare this vessel’s matriarch appear after 300 years (billions, if he counts the resets, but he refuses to think about that) and immediately know how to calm them. It is terrifying.
“You came back,” he says softly, the tone almost accusingly.
His breath stutters, mirroring yours. He holds you like either of you might disappear again.
You place one shaking hand on the back of his head.
He shudders at the gentleness, claws gripping your clothes.
“Do not,” he chokes, voice muffled. Sentence unfinished. You understand anyway.
“I won’t,” you promise, voice breaking. “I won’t, my darling boy.”
His grip tightens.
Whether this is a ghost, a trick, or something clawed from the deepest pit of Hell, you will not leave again, because this is yours.
Your curse.
Your grief.
Your miracle.
Your boy.
Abbadon can be really hot and cold with you. One day he's getting up and leaving without another word, another day he cradles you until you fall asleep. Either you'll be left with an unsettling feeling he somehow found a way to mock you.
B = Bondage, How do they feel about being tied up or tying you up?
Refuses to be tied up, goes against all of his personal principles. You on the other hand? He loves having you restrained, and most importantly at his mercy. It doesn't necessarily have to be bondage, even pinning you down with his hands works to satisfy him.
C = Cum, How hard and how much do they cum? Do they have a cum fetish?
Oh the cum and breeding fetish is intense. There's so much it just pours out but he makes quick work of fingering it back into you, and you have to clean his fingers of course. Abbadon makes you look at him as he finishes, regardless of the position he'll grip your face and force to to hold eye contact. Maybe, if he's feeling nice, you'll get a kiss.
D = Dirty secret, Something they wouldn't even admit to you.
There's nothing he wouldn't admit to you, what does he have to be ashamed of? You will be privy to every thought and fantasy to he wishes to share. Key word wishes too. You aren't aware of the extent of somw of his cravings for violence, towards you and anyone.
E = Experience, How experienced are they?
Extremely. Abbadon takes after his genesire in many ways. While the skills in diplomacy may have gone to his Mournival brothers, Abbadon is all confidence and pride. That is to say. He Fucks. He's attractive, both as a man and for his position, and he knows it well.
F = Favorite position, self explanatory
Face down ass up and holding you down. OR ☝️ prone on top of you, sometimes with you in a headlock. Be thankful he can handle his strength as well as he does because when your neck is in the crook of an arm as wide as your head you realise how quickly it could go south.
G = Got caught, How do they react to being caught in the act?
H = Hot spots, Parts of themselves or you that turn them on.
RAGE AND FURY. WAR AND DEATH. HATRED. VIOLENCE. GET OUT ILL KILL YOU
On him? His upper body, specifically touching it with or without asking. Wrapping your arms around his neck while you kiss him, holding on to his arm to stabilise yourself, the rare times he let's you hug him, it does it for him. Insubordination is not allowed but he will let you claw at his back and arms during sex because he thinks it's hot.
On you? Your neck, obviously. Thank Horus that mortals do not heal quickly, he can watch days or weeks worth of bruises and bites accumulate until your skin is barely visible. Of course, he does make you cover them up. For his own reputation and to keep you away from prying eyes.
I = Intimacy, How romantic are they?
Not romantic at all, lol. He has nothing nice or genuine to say, he's not particularly gentle with you and any "acts of service" are doing things without your permission because he says they're "for the best." Though, depends on what you consider romantic really. Maybe dragging you around all day because he saw you speak with another Astartes and it made him jealous is romance to you.
J = Jack off, Do they masturbate and how often?
Even if you're right there he's wanking it, it's fun for him. He doesn't view it as having a lack of hoes to fuck and instead as an exertion of control in its own right because he has a gorgeous mind. Also, yeah, parallel play ftw.
K = Kink, What are their kinks?
Hair kink: well of course! you're not allowed to pull his hair but he'll certainly pull yours like a leash, regardless of length he'll latch on to it. You can OCCASIONALLY touch his hair. He does get off a bit on you doing his hair for him like you're his serf or something.
Manhandling: Well of course... he's not very niceys, has a tendency to throw you about and pick you up instead of. Asking you to move. It's a little funny to me actually.
Sub/dom: The least surprising point in the world LOL anyways
L = Location, What are their favourite places to have sex?
Anyy where at all. No room, perhaps bar Lupercal's Court, are safe from him pulling it out. And why should he be ashamed? He is second only to the Warmaster, this is his ship. Off the Vengeful Spirit I do believe he would engage in high risk sex. Laying pipe in places that are not only impractical but hazardous to your health.
M = Motivation, What turns them on?
Submission. Contrary to how he acts when you do have sex, he's not some lust crazed animal. That being said, your compliance, trust and unwavering belief in him does go straight to his dick. And he pride. But mostly his dick.
N = No, What is something they would never do?
In a technical sense, nothing. There's no extreme he wouldn't go to, no pain he wouldn't inflict. But really he wouldn't do anything to permanently drive you away or break your trust in him. He's a brute but not an idiot, manhandling you only gets the reactions he wants if you're at least somewhat in love with him. So, he keeps you in a push and pull, just on the edge of going too far.
O = Oral, Do they prefer giving or receiving? etc
LOVES receiving head, it's insane. Usually prefers for you to do so without being told but he's no stranger to shoving you exactly where he wants you to be. Giving head is another story, it's not often but he's not bad at it. Like everything, it lacks gentleness.
P = Pace, What's their pace during sex? Are they consistent, or do they get tired?
Extremely consistent and brutal pace, no mercy, you only get breaks if you beg really nicely. Can occasionally have gentle sex but this is also rhythmic and controlled.
Q = Quickie, Will they do quickies? If so, how often?
Like.... half the sex you have is quickies. He'll have you almost anywhere. The only thing really stopping him is his status and reputation as first Captain. If not for that he'd have you in the hallway for all he cared. This just means you have to get to a more private place though, which is not hard for a man who knows the Vengeful Spirit like he knows his own bolter.
R = Roleplay, Do they like roleplaying? If so, what roles?
If he cared to look into it he probably would. It'd be more of the same though, as long as you're submitting to him he's content. That being said if you are in a position directly under him he would never stop talking about it, both to mock you and get off.
S = Stamina, How long do they last?
Even by Astartes standards he is just... monstrous. He could complete with a primarch and 40k Abbadon certainly does in many ways. Forget hours, he could go for days and he'd mock you for being tired still. He's kind of a cunt like that.
T = Toys, Do they own or use toys?
There's not an abundance of sex toys on the Vengeful Spirit but he is libel to do whatever he wants forever. So yes.
U = Unfair, Do they like to tease?
Well obviously. He'll tease you to the the point of tears and awkwardly try to comfort you afterwards but Abbadon will never really stop.
V = Volume, How loud they are?
Enough self control to not let himself get lost in it but occasionally he might and he is loud. Grunts, gasps, even a laugh or a moan. All the things he usually keeps constrained to maintain an air of dignity about him fall apart and he fucks you like an animal.
W = Wild card, Random headcanon.
You CAN braid his hair. IF you ask nicely and you've been good that day and all the stars align. Honestly he does enough his hair being touched during sex. Not pulled, watch yourself, but combing it with your fingers, balling it up and gripping that, etc. It's acceptable.
X = X-ray, What's their body like?
We know what it's like LOL. naked abbadon before gta 6....... that thing is heavyy I know it is.
Y = Yearning, How high is their sex drive?
Pretty high all things considered, he just has a lot of self control. (or a lot of moments to rub one out) Does not enjoy being teased about this however, it's like you're comparing him to an animal and he will not tolerate that.
Z = Zzz , How quickly do they fall asleep?
Seeing him sleep at all is a rare treat. But he's no more peaceful than he is awake, it's as though te act of resting physically hurts him. A small part of him enjoys watching you sleep.
His hand covers the entirety of your neck and the top of your back, pushing you hard into the cold metal of the storage cupboard’s wall. It was one of the two things holding you up as your feet hovered a few feet in the air, and you’d stopped fighting for any purchase a long time ago.
The other thing holding you up was his cock, rhythmically pounding up and down into you, bouncing your whole body with every thrust.
“Do you even know who I am, little serf?” he spoke into your ear, his head directly behind yours, words gritted ever so slightly as he continued powering in and out.
He couldn’t have been expecting a response, not with the way his hand was squeezed around your mouth and throat, muffling the obscene whines and moans you were producing. The only sounds came from the wet slap of skin on skin, his own words, or the thud of heavy boots walking past the storage room he’d sequestered you in.
“Or did you want any Luna Wolf that would take you? By the throne I could smell you from five hallways away” his voice hitches slightly and his dick twitches inside of you before he continues, “I bet a little slut like you would whore yourself out for any Luna Wolf, but I’m also willing to bet none of them could fuck you like me.”
His grip on your mouth moves, slipping two of his fingers inside and pressing them down on the back of your tongue until you’re almost choking on your own saliva. The drool that had pooled from his prior gagging now spilled out, slicking your face against the wall.
Just as wet as you were up top, your thighs were positively coated in slick, both yours and his. Though you had to admit it was mostly yours, as he had yet to properly cum, instead delaying and jackhammering into you for seemingly as long as he could hold it.
Not that he’d complained as he’d first stripped your robes back, starting by roughly thrusting his fingers in to see what he was working with.
His first words to you had echoed in your brain right until he’d first slipped his cock into you and fucked you utterly mindless.
“Little slut didn’t even need preparation - already a wet mess for your lord, as you should be.”
You never would have expected Lord Abaddon, one of the Mournival - best of the best, to ever take notice of a lowly serf, but you couldn’t be more thankful, more worshipful however he chose to use you.
What were you but a lowly bitch in comparison to him?
He had certainly shown you what you were worth, using you like a toy for his own personal pleasure.
‘As he should’ your mind whispered, body convulsing as he thrust hard, hitting the same spot over and over as you clenched around him. His punishing pace and brutal force was sure to leave you sore, limping and bruised for days, if not weeks.
“You’re almost good enough to be a cumdump, you know? Perhaps you could be trained for use…” he says, almost considering but entirely condescending in tone.
The praise sent your mind spiralling and had your walls clenching around him hard. His ensuing hiss of pleasure would have sent you over the edge - if you weren’t already long gone some minutes ago.
Only his grip on you was keeping you up, forcing you into pliancy as he fucked you upwards and finger-fucked your needy mouth into muffled silence.
“Could keep a bitch like you crawling behind me, maybe share with the Mournival even - keep you nice and filled, his pace quickens slightly, but his stroke becomes sloppier and breathing harder as he speaks again, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
His fingers finally slip out from your throat, letting you gasp in deep breaths, but you’re too fucked out to consider responding, and in all actuality you’re sure he doesn’t want you to.
“Of course you would.” he punctuates his own reply with a sharp smack to your ass that has you squealing, and prompts him into quickly replacing his hand over your mouth.
His pace doesn’t slow at all, but he does spare a glance to the door, waiting to speak until you hear a set of heavy footsteps pass by that you hadn’t even known was coming.
“Silly slut, forgotten where we are already?” he considers a moment, “then again, you probably want to be found, add another cock to use you into the mix.”
You feel his pace quicken again, his cock pumping into you rapid-fire for a few moments before you finally feel it.
He stops thrusting frighteningly fast, the hand pushing you into the wall curling slightly as everything stops moving but the twitch of his cock and cum exploding out into you. The sheer amount and spreading warmth has you keening and whining, muscles relaxing and spasming rapidly as it begins bloating you.
You hadn’t even noticed him slipping out of you with how utterly stuffed and raw you felt, but your toes sliding down to touch the floor brings you back into the moment.
Unfortunately, your legs don’t seem to obey you anymore, and you immediately sink to your knees, only just catching yourself with your hands meeting the sticky puddle you’ve made of the floor.
“At least know your place,” he comments, not as cruelly as his previous remarks, just making astute observations.
You feel a few last spurts of warm cum splatter onto your back, and then a sudden yank as he pulls your hair back towards him. You’re only confused for a moment before you feel him use your body as a rag to wipe himself down with.
The first flickers of shame well up inside of you as you look over the state of both yourself and the room.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?” he commands, head tilting in expectation, ponytail swaying to the side behind him.
No part of his statement in any way a question so much as an order.
You’re tempted to turn and face him as your thanks and praises tumble in a slightly incoherent slur from your lips, to present yourself properly, maybe regain a shred of dignity.
However, you’re intercepted, breath stolen from your lungs as the hard tip of his boot presses into your back and pushes your chest into the floor, keeping you pressed down away from him. The pressure he applies isn’t so much as to truly harm you, but it holds you firmly into the frigid and unyielding floor as he starts picking up his possessions above you.
“Ah, ah, ah.” you hear the swish of his long hair and metallic clanking as he presumably reconnects his gauntlets.
You hear the faint rustle of cloth and the foot is lifted from your back, but you don’t dare move yet.
The choice seems to be the right one as he chuckles lightly, and you hear the door click as he holds the latch, “you weren't entirely hopeless as a cumdump I suppose, I might even use you again - if you make it back to the serf’s quarters without becoming sloppy seconds.”
His words echo in your head as he leaves, the thud of his boots becoming as distant as all those who passed you both earlier.
There would be no concealing your rumpled appearance, your clothes wouldn’t hide all the bruises, and while you could wipe most of the cum off you there was nothing to be done for the rest of you really…
And you knew astartes could smell far better than a baseline could, had you been marked as open season?
Still, it wasn’t far - you could make it.
Slowly, you pick yourself up, limbs still and aching, wiping as much of the spent cum off with your fingers as you could.
Then you realised what the rustle of cloth had been.
i am crawling on hand and foot, scratching at the door, mewling and whining and begging you to PLEASE WRITE THE MOURNIVAL KINK HEADCANON
sorry for making you wait ◡̈
i try to make these g/n but one implies you can lactate. wink.
nsfw 18+ of course!! a whole load of other astartes coming up soon. if you're not into it, don't read it, as usual.
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abbadon: dacryphilia. he never wanted to see you cry. he'd have done anything to protect you and keep you from harm, being so precious to him. yet, when you were lying beneath him, when his entire being consumed you, he couldn't help but enjoy the way you cried for him. he brings his thumb to your cheek, swiping away your tears that covered your pretty skin. it's okay, he'd tell you, worried at first he'd done something wrong. when you shake your head, beg him to carry on, to fuck you harder, to feel more of him, he'd feel himself twitch inside you. he had to make sure. you're crying because... of how good i make you feel? his ego would never recover. he'd make a silent competition with himself, knowing each time he had you, he wanted to see you cry, whimper, sob over him. he'd make it his goal to overwhelm you, make you feel so good it hurts. maybe he likes being praised in that way, knowing you really can't hold yourself back. either way, he thinks you're so pretty with your lashes wet, eyes glassy, and body exhausted - and he'd do just about anything to see it.
aximand: lactophilia. his fingers were twitching at his side. he hated himself for the thoughts he had. oh how badly he wanted to take your nipple into his mouth, have his warm lips wrap around the bud and suck. he hates it. but his hands still pawed at your waist as you approached him, his breath shuddering as offer your chest to him. he turns his head, yet steals another glance. hates it. he doesn't move as you lean into him, guide the back of his head down to your chest gently. you tell him it's okay, he can take what he wants. he still hates it. I can't... he'd tell you, his voice barely breaking a whisper. he tries to ignore the ache, tries to resist your temptation, but its all futile. just a taste, he'd tell you, latching onto your nipple, his hand on your back to hold you closer to him as his mouth caressed your full breast. he shouldn't want to have you riding his cock as he did this. he shouldn't want this all to himself. yet, as he presses his forehead against your chest for the shortest break, sinks his other hand into your hips to hold you steady as his groans, he still hates himself, but he'd never be able to live without this.
torgaddon: crurophilia. you'd been laying on your stomach, your legs fully bare. he'd never really been able to resist you, but he always found your legs incredibly beautiful. he'd run his fingers up your calves to your thighs, he'd press his lips the whole way up them too, he'd leave bruises across them, he'd sink his teeth into your soft flesh whenever he lost the smallest bit of attention. at first he'd turned you over, used his mouth to please you and pushed your thighs around his head, wanting to feel you tremble, wanting you to squeeze your thighs against him as you chase your high. feel your calf drag press against his back so you could have more of him in your most sensitive areas. but when he looked up to you, and caught your eyes, he'd stopped. i need to feel them, he'd tell you, unlacing your fingers from the bedsheets, kissing you roughly as he turned you back over. been thinking about doing this for a while, sweetheart. usually it was enough to have your legs around his waist or over his shoulders. wonder how it would feel to fuck those beautiful thighs, he'd say outloud, amused by how quickly you'd tense beneath him.
loken: authority. he strove to be better. to be the best even. it consumed him, sometimes, just as it was when he reached gently for you. i want... his hesitant words were so uncommon for someone in his position, but when you encouraged him to continue, he'd find the strength to admit his biggest secret to you. i need to be good for you. he wanted you to teach him to be everything you needed. he wanted you to hum in approval with everything you liked that he did, or deny him if he ever put a foot wrong. i'll do better next time, he'd promise you, his own mind going crazy over the thought of letting you down. his most favourite thing was when you told him no. he'd never beg you for more, he'd never demand what he wasn't rewarded with. he'd be patient, he'd sit with the desperate ache of having you tell him to be good, to wait. because it contradicted him so perfectly, didn't it? no one would ever know how desperate he was to have you say how well he did. that he needed to have you stroke his hair softly and let him lay his head on your chest. that a single word of praise could break him mentally and make you entirely his.
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Abbadon. Cain. All of Hell really, they all tried to hide you from the Winchesters. Especially with what was going on with Dean Winchester out on a hungry prowl for blood. Specifically Knight of Hell blood.
You were said to be the most treasured thing in Hell. The seed that would grow more. Expand its power. Cause a demon uprising to a higher stance of power. If Lucifer hadn’t created you and announced all you were capable of, you’d be an average- whatever the hell you were exactly.
Some called you the Dark Prince’s Daughter. Others referred to you as The Savior. In all reality. You hated all of those names. You preferred Y/n. The name that was given to you by somebody. Somebody who you couldn’t remember from your human life. But the name stuck all the same. By now it was all you could remember from your simple mundane life.
Behind the walls of Hell, nobody knew of you. Angels believed you were a myth. Maybe it was best that they did. After all, they were fierce. You’d never seen one face to face. In all honesty, you’d never gotten the chance.
The one man who knew too much about you was Crowley. What made it worse was his connection with the Winchesters. Abbadon had made it her personal mission to kill the poor bastard.
“Oh come on. Where does it end? First he takes the throne and now this?” We all knew she wasn’t fond of him already, but to threaten you? That was a whole different story.
“Let me come and help you. You’ll need backup. He’s Crowley.” Of course you wanted to help, this mess surrounded you.
“What do I look like to you? An amateur? I think I can handle a squirming cockroach, Y/n.” As quickly as she had come, she was gone.
It infuriated you. Always being stuck here. And you swore to yourself, the next time something came up, you would deal with it yourself. All these many, endless years in Hell had grown tiring. There was much out there and you were going to be apart of it.
Abbadon had been gone for hours, hunting Crowley. But the tables had been flipped when a sharp pain had radiated through your chest, directly through your heart.
Instantly, you dropped to the floor, screaming at the pain. Both you and her were linked. If one of you was to be injured where death would occur, the other would feel it. She was dead. The last Knight of Hell.
No more hiding. It was time to make your big debut.
*****
The street was crowded. People, cars, they were everywhere. And you were above it all. Floating like a vigilant superhero in the sky. People looked up in awe, pointing and gasping. But you were no hero.
Lightening struck in the suddenly dark sky behind you as your eyes closed to allow your power to flow beyond your body. Both hands were out on either side and your head was back slightly. Screams of terror filled the air as the darkness from the sky descended into the busy and frantic streets below you.
Nobody could see an inch in front of their faces. Darkness, it was everywhere. Everybody was coughing, inhaling the black smoke around them. Its presence suffocating those who breathed it in. Killing them instantly.
Your feet were bare as you gently placed yourself onto the pavement and cleared the air with your thoughts. Death was everywhere. Reapers would have a beautiful time collecting all of these souls.
“Dean!” From the corner of your eye you caught glimpse of a man coming from a stairwell. His face frozen at the horrid graveyard site in front of him. Sam was yelling for him to return to safe hiding.
Whatever brave actions he was going to do all faded away when you began walking towards him. The Winchester took a step back, regardless of the fact he still wore the Mark on his arm and had the blade in his hand. But you were far to invested into this to allow him to leave.
Gripping your hand into a ball, you forced him to come closer to you.
“Dean Winchester.” His breathing was uneven as you spoke to him. Each breath he took and exhaled led directly to you.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Your hand reached out and placed itself instinctually onto his cheek.
He was clearly confused.
“I’m sorry, who are you exactly?” Even when he knew you could kill him, he still spoke with a tongue like a knife.
From behind him Castiel and Sam made a move towards you, but you quickly held their bodies against a wall and went back to ignoring them.
“Forgive me for not introducing myself. The events of today are still- adjusting to me. I’m known as Y/n.” Your eyes held a kind and innocent look. One that scared the living hell out of him. How could somebody slaughter an entire town and be so calm and collected?
“No.” A voice from behind him spoke up. It was raspy and rough.
“You- you’re not real. Heaven-” you had to cut off the angel from speaking.
“Heaven is clueless as to what’s really out there. And it will fall, along with all of God’s beloved warriors of the sky.” Taking a step away from Dean, you began walking towards Castiel.
Bodies laid in your path to the angel, you simply floated above them and once again landed on your feet once you were in front of him.
“Once I’m through with Heaven, I’ll move onto the beloved ants you all cherish. By the time I’m finished….” you looked over to Dean, bringing him beside you so his brother and best friend would have to watch what was yet to come.
“You’ll wish I was a myth.”
Without warning you slid your hand over the mark. Dean instantly tried to buckle down in pain, but you held his head up. Not allowing him to. A bright glowing light began to radiate from his arm and into the sky. Your eyes closed, embracing its warm glow.
Behind you were two beautiful thickly feathered wings. Black wings to be specific. With two horns curling up at the tops and bottoms so big they dragged on the ground.
“Thank you, Dean. You’ve restored me. I’m whole again because of you, and for that will always be bound.” Once again your hand was gently placed on his cheek, and you were gone.
“Cas, what did you mean by she was a myth? What is she?” Both Sam and Cas were no longer being held against the wall, but there was an unsettling look on the angels face as he spoke the words that would bring the end of the world.
hi, can do resquest Abbadon x demon fem reader, where the reader is a demon only trapped inside a girl's body, they both knew each other in hell and Abbadon felt something for her but he didn't say it because he was in an arranged marriage and now in the hotel he wants to get closer to the reader
𐕣 Abbadon x demon reader 𐕣
👻🏨👻🏨👻🏨👻
You were never partners, but your paths did cross on occasion. He admired your wit and ruthlessness; you admired his poise and control. There was always something unspoken between you.
When you disappeared, rumors spread through Hell that you’d been destroyed during something called the Salem Witch Trials. Abaddon didn’t believe it. You were no prince of Hell, but neither were you weak. So, he decided to investigate Earth himself. What’s the worst that could happen?
You’ve spent centuries trapped in the fragile body of a long-dead girl, unable to fully manifest aging in eerie, uneven intervals. Your eyes still gleam with infernal light, and whispers of your true voice sometimes echo through the girl's throat you inhabit.
When Abaddon first sees you in the Undervale Hotel, there’s a flicker of disbelief. The vessel throws him off, but he never forgets the smell of Hell—ancient and familiar.
He’s not one for emotions, but there’s a heaviness in his tone when he finally says, “You shouldn’t have been left to rot in that form.” He’s sorry in his own curt, formal way.
He doesn’t coddle you; he hates pity as much as you do. But he subtly ensures that no other spirits or guests mess with you. If something disturbs you, he’s suddenly there, looming quietly nearby, brooding like a guard dog. It never actually works, but it makes you feel better anyway.
Both of you are trapped—he in his vessel, you in yours. It’s a grim symmetry that neither of you missed. Sometimes you sit together, two old demons learning to navigate the complexities of existence, with memories of Hell and a flickering hope for the future that lies ahead.
The Undervale Hotel was never quiet. Its curtains swayed like lungs trying to breathe, and every mirror seemed to hold a face that wasn’t supposed to be there. Abaddon had learned to live with it, or at least within it. But the night you arrived, he swore the air shifted.
You weren’t new to him. You weren't easy to forget. He still remembered the first time he’d seen you centuries ago, back when Hell still had a skyline of burning stone. You were hardly anything special and yet you’d felt secure enough to jest at him once, loud and unafraid, and he’d ripped the mortal he was holding in half trying to remain composed. Back then, he’d had obligations, the gates, the castle, the wife. Admiration had no place in that kind of eternity.
And yet there you were now, centuries later, standing at the front desk in the small, fragile body of a little human girl. Your eyes were too old for your face. Very few knew your name, and he had not spoken it in years.
“You sound like my name itself was a scar you’d pressed salt into.” He blinked, a long pause followed. Then, laughter came, unguarded. The sound hit him harder than any ghost ever could.
It wasn't peaceful, when you arrived, there was hardly a peaceful day on this infernal property, and having a second demon on the premises didn’t help calm the ghost protests going on down.
Later, when the Undervale Hotel’s hallways had gone quiet, he found you sitting cross-legged on the roof, staring at the stars. You’d always liked the mortal sky. The darkness up here felt softer than the one you came from.
The words hung there, heavier than they should have been. You smiled faintly, your eyes reflecting the moon. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“Never,” he said, then kicked at a loose shingle to avoid your gaze. “Though I’d hoped you’d picked a better vessel.”
You shrugged. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. Heretical trials don’t leave many options.”
He hummed, the wind tugging at his coat and carrying the faint scent of ozone, the only reminder of what he once was.
“So,” you said, “what now? Do we keep playing like the old days? Pretending we’re not disasters wearing borrowed skin?”
Abaddon hesitated. Then he said, “We live.”
“Live?” you echoed, a bit of laughter tucked into the word. “Not much choice in that part.”
He glanced at you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Semantics.”
For a while, you both sat in silence. Two demons who had torn through empires and centuries, now reduced to borrowed bones and glass lenses, learning how to be people again.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “You ever miss it? The fire?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But not as much as I thought I would.”
You looked at him, curious. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer right away. His scar pulsed faintly through the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, he looked ancient again, bound and burning.
Then quietly he said, “Because you’re here, and the warmth of hellfire does not compare.”
You didn’t respond, just leaned back and watched the stars, pretending not to hear the tremor in his voice. After all, you both understood that some things were better left unsaid. And so, in a haunted hotel filled with ghosts and half-dead dreams, two old demons sat under a mortal sky, neither quite human nor quite damned, learning how to share the burden between them.
You will not stay here with him forever, just as you never stayed in hell for long, but you’ll hold the memories of him in this hotel just as fondly as you did of him in hell.
wait wait wait- Horus goes afte *Abaddon's* sweetheart? oh my word.
oh yes. it's scandalous. because horus believes sharing is caring and is also a tad bit jealous. i made you a serf oops sorry.
and abbadon doesn't know how to approach you.
he'd been watching you for what seemed like weeks. never missing an opportunity to coldly observe you carrying out your duties, the special attention never going unnoticed by his brothers. he'd tell the ones he didn't trust so much that there were concerns. that he'd decided to keep an eye on you to ensure that no one was hurt, caused any problems, or... something else, the excuse changed every time.
but to his closest brothers? just a bit more came out. not on purpose, obviously, abbadon just happened to clearly be distracted that day by something and tarik was never going to let him walk away without finding out what. because the brother who usually stood expressionless was suddenly pining over something quite obviously. all you'd done was leave the room to carry on with your day. but abbadon didn't have an excuse to follow you without someone digging deeper. so he had to let you go just that one time.
but from then on he is always there. he's always around you for whatever reason without saying a word. sometimes he looks like he may speak to you, but he never does more than look at you. so of course you're thinking you're going to be killed by this monster of a man, why would he be looking at you like that otherwise (no, abbadon had not mastered the facial expressions of flirtation either, perhaps he should pick up fulgrim's classes). and you know for a fact that everyone else notices, and horus somehow got an earful of the conversation as well.
to which the primarch would say nothing. he'd listen with a small, knowing smile as his son rambled on about this person who had attended to their tasks so diligently and was the perfect example of what a serf should be. that your hair is always done exactly as it should be and you dressed very well and took care of yourself. yeah yeah abbadon keep talking, they've all figured it out. horus especially. because who could catch the eyes of the warmaster more than someone already caught the eyes of his favourite son?
you of course •⩊•
don't worry. it might feel like you've captured the wrath of the entire luna wolves at first. but horus doesn't just stare. he's very sweet actually, he knows exactly what to say to you to make you realised that they're not going to kill you. and that smug bastard of a father enjoys knowing that he's one uping abbadon. because horus isn't afraid to place his hand, which is huge, on your shoulder or at the bottom of your back, he doesn't hesitate when he notices you staring at him instead of the decorative armour he's trying to show you. distracting you, am i? fuck you horus. yes you are. and he'd lean down and whisper so sweetly you're distracting me too, sweetheart.
bevause abbadon couldn't say that to you without coughing up a lung or something. but he did find horus a great catch!! congratulations, this is better than any two for one deal you can find elsewhere.
